


wanting (was enough)

by jessalae



Category: The Magicians (TV)
Genre: Anal Sex, Eliot Waugh's Canonically Huge Dick, First Time, Inspired by Taylor Swift, M/M, Mosaic Timeline (The Magicians: A Life in the Day), Plot What Plot/Porn Without Plot, Size Difference, Size Kink, Song: august (Taylor Swift)
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-09-17
Updated: 2020-09-17
Packaged: 2021-03-08 02:33:49
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 8,544
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/26518273
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/jessalae/pseuds/jessalae
Summary: Whispers of "Are you sure?” // "Never have I ever before"
Relationships: Quentin Coldwater/Eliot Waugh
Comments: 43
Kudos: 173
Collections: A Million Little Times





	wanting (was enough)

**Author's Note:**

> Thank you to the magnificent hoko_onchi for betaing, to the whole peaches & plums discord for cheerleading and helping me brainstorm sex banter, and to the queliotfolklore mods for running this event!

"Are you sure? Truly, truly sure? There are so many things we can do, we don’t need to rush into anything you’re not comfortable with."

"Jesus, Eliot, if I didn't know better I'd think you don't _want_ to fuck me," Quentin says, exasperated.

"Of _course_ I want to fuck you," Eliot says, managing to sound extremely put-upon even though he's the one dragging his feet here. "It's just that this isn't exactly a starter dick. Baby's first cock should be something— normal sized, ideally." 

"And who would you suggest I fuck to check that off the list?" Quentin asks.

"Well in an ideal world, we'd maybe experiment with toys a bit, work you up to it—"

"You keep saying _ideal, ideally,_ like those words have any relation to what our lives are like right now." A shadow crosses Eliot’s face, and Quentin immediately regrets what he said. He leans across the table, over their empty dinner plates, and kisses Eliot firmly until Eliot is smiling against his lips, an apology and a distraction all at once.

"Anyway, we don't have toys," Quentin says. "Unless I guess we, like, carved one out of wood, or something? Which I do not want, do not do that."

"I was not even considering it. That is a terrible idea," Eliot says.

"So we're working with what we have here," Quentin says. "And your dick is what I have. Which is convenient, really, because that's what I _want_. I don't want toys, I want." He's blushing already, he can tell, but they've been having sex for like two weeks and he's been wanting this for a lot longer than that, he can’t let a little embarrassment stop him now. "I want you inside me. Even if I’m. I mean, I haven’t before, but I know you can make it good, El, you're a fucking— what did you call yourself last night?"

"An alabaster sex god, and I was quoting someone, and I had just come and cannot be held responsible for my actions," Eliot says. 

He's looking at Quentin consideringly. From anyone else, this kind of focused attention would make Quentin want to shake his bangs in front of his face, redirect the conversation. But this is _Eliot_. Who, amazingly, didn't laugh in Quentin's face when Quentin kissed him that first night. Or the following night, or the night after that. Who looks at Quentin's body with undisguised hunger, when they're in bed together, with a kind of appreciation Quentin's not sure he's seen on— anyone else's face, maybe?

"So far you're pretty much living up to the title,” Quentin says. “Although if you're not going to fuck me, I feel like that's gotta take you down a few ranks. You can be like, a sex vizier. Or sex middle management."

"Keep riffing, Coldwater, my dick's going to be everywhere _except_ inside you," Eliot says, low, threatening, but he's smirking.

"I'm just saying," Quentin says, holding up both hands innocently. "I'm asking for it. Sex gods grant prayers, I hear."

"This one isn't granting anything until dishes are done," Eliot says, standing with a groan. Quentin's eyes flash unbidden to the front of his pants: no tent, not even a bump, nothing. You'd think tight slacks like this would give more away, especially with what Eliot's got under them. Maybe he’s not hard yet. Quentin will have to work on that.

Quentin gets water from the rain barrel while Eliot gets the washbasin set up. Eliot takes his sweet time doing the dishes, Quentin hovering behind him, straightening things on the mantelpiece that didn't need straightening, wondering if he can maybe. Go over to the bed and get naked, already? Is that too much? Eliot does seem to love undressing him. He does one last check outside to make sure they didn't leave their paper and chalk out just in case it rains, then goes to pull the curtains closed at one window, then the other.

Eliot walks up behind him and wraps his arms around his waist. "Settle, Q," he murmurs. He dips his head to kiss the side of Quentin's neck, the shell of his ear. Quentin leans back into his arms happily. "You're never going to be able to take it if you're all jumpy like this."

"I don't know if you've noticed," Quentin says. "But I'm jumpy like this all the time, and we've been doing pretty good so far." He grinds his ass against Eliot, trying to see if he's getting hard yet.

Eliot's kissing his jaw, harder, stubble scraping Quentin's skin. Quentin undoes the button of his jeans, starts sliding them down. He can feel Eliot smile against his neck. "Eager, mm?"

"I couldn't even wait until after dinner to ask you to put your dick in my ass, so I think yeah, eager's maybe the right word for it," Quentin points out, although his point is a little lost when Eliot slides a hand over the front of his briefs and Quentin's voice catches. Quentin pushes back against him again.

Eliot steps back, turns Quentin by the shoulders, and pulls him into a deep kiss. His fingers slide up Quentin's neck into his hair, and Quentin leans up into him, chasing more, making a pleased noise when Eliot licks across his bottom lip and then bites softly, tugs at it with his teeth. Quentin holds Eliot tight around the waist, rubbing against him from the front, now, and oh, he's _definitely_ getting hard. Quentin feels extremely pleased with himself, can't keep from grinning into Eliot's kiss.

Eliot pulls back. "Something funny?"

Quentin makes a small noise and ruts against Eliot's leg. "It's just. It's fun to turn you on, I." Quentin's not sure how to explain it. "I like it."

"I would fucking hope so," Eliot says. He kisses Quentin once more, tongue finding its home in Quentin's mouth, and then says, "We're wearing too many clothes."

"Yeah," Quentin says, and shoves his briefs down, nearly headbutting Eliot in the chest in the process.

Eliot laughs at him — normally someone laughing at Quentin during sex is like— the ultimate turn-off; he knows that because it's happened before (too many times), but somehow Eliot laughs like. Not like Quentin did anything wrong, but like he's delighted, and like he wants to see what Quentin will do next? 

And when Eliot laughs during sex, like this, his laugh goes all deep and unbearably hot. He takes Quentin by the shoulders again, straightens him up, kisses him. Breaks the kiss at exactly the right moment, as he pulls Quentin's shirt up over his head, so they don't get interrupted by the fabric, it comes in in the perfect pause between one kiss and the next. Quentin attempts to unbutton Eliot's shirt, kind of gives up (too many buttons) and decides to work on his belt and his fly instead.

Eliot of course is far more skilled than Quentin at buttons, so Quentin's barely got Eliot’s zipper down before he needs to stop and run his hands over Eliot's newly-bared chest. Pale skin, dark hair, nipples that tighten immediately under the brush of Quentin’s fingers — it’s incredible. He captures Eliot's mouth for a kiss, pushes Eliot's shirt off his strong shoulders and down his arms. He can't, he just can't get enough of the press of their chests together, Eliot's chest hair soft against his skin, his stomach taut and gorgeous.

Quentin drops to his knees, a little clumsily, kisses Eliot's stomach. He's got dark hair growing below his navel and on down, and Quentin kisses his way through it, inhaling the warmth and scent of Eliot's skin, sweat from the day and the soft rosemary-scented soap one of their neighbors makes. He finishes opening Eliot's pants, slow. Then finally, _finally_ , he can get Eliot's pants and underwear down around his knees and get face to face (so to speak) with Eliot's dick.

It's— so nice. Like, so fucking nice. Quentin hasn't been with a _lot_ of guys in person but he's, you know, watched porn, back when he lived in a world where the internet was a thing. And yeah that's not real, whatever, but like, Eliot could absolutely do porn. One thousand percent. With a dick like this? Fuck. Quentin would subscribe to that site so fucking fast. It's not even completely hard yet and it's already almost as long as Quentin's hand (which he runs open-palmed down Eliot length), the head emerging smooth and rosy pink from Eliot's foreskin (as Quentin wraps his fingers around the shaft and strokes, sliding the skin back, Eliot sighing above him).

He can't resist, he has to get it in his mouth. He leans in, licks at the head to hear Eliot swear, then takes it in, hand keeping the foreskin pulled back so he can get his mouth on more of the ultra-sensitive skin just below the head of Eliot's cock. It swells against his tongue, his lips stretching further as he sucks Eliot all the way hard.

Quentin knew he liked sucking dick before this, so he wasn't nearly as surprised as Eliot was at how he wants to do this all the time, like _all_ the time. They definitely have time to get one more pattern done before the sun finishes setting, but since they started having sex, all of Quentin’s motivation to figure out the puzzle has been replaced with motivation to get Eliot’s cock inside him in every way that can possibly happen.

One of Eliot's hands is cradling the back of Quentin's head, fingers barely slipping into Quentin's hair. Quentin relaxes his throat and takes it in deep and gets exactly what he wants, Eliot's fingers tightening in his hair, a twitch in Eliot's cock at the base where he's still got his hand around it (because he can't go _all_ the way, probably, or at least he hasn't tried yet). He breathes slowly through his nose and looks up at Eliot in a way he really hopes looks as sexy as it does in his head.

"Fucking Christ," Eliot says, and his hips jerk a little like he's trying to keep from thrusting. Quentin does an imaginary little fist-pump in his head: sexy achieved. "Fuck, Q, breathe, you idiot."

Quentin pulls his mouth off of Eliot's cock, letting his tongue drag oh so slowly over the underside of the head as he goes. "I can breathe through my nose," he says. He works Eliot's cock with his hand, fingers sliding nicely now in his own spit.

" _Oh_ my god," Eliot says, and Quentin fucking can't believe that he, Quentin, can take him, Eliot, apart like this by just, like, giving him head for _two minutes_. It doesn't seem possible. He moans and dives back in, taking as much as he can, the head of Eliot’s dick rubbing its way across his soft palate. 

Then Eliot's grabbing him by the upper arms, dragging him up to standing, kissing him like nobody's ever sucked his dick this good, or something, which can’t be true. But somehow Eliot makes Quentin feel like it's true without even saying it, in the way he licks hungrily into Quentin's mouth, runs his hands all over Quentin's back and down to his ass, squeezes. Triumph ripples through Quentin. He's going to get good and fucked tonight, fuck, he cannot _wait_.

"Bed," Eliot says into Quentin's mouth. Quentin sucks on his lip, rubs his whole body against him, maybe a weird thing to do but it feels so _good_. Grabs Eliot's dick and strokes it again before his spit can dry and make it sticky. "Quentin, fuck—do you want me to fuck you or not?"

"Obviously," Quentin says, or maybe pants. His heart is hammering. Hearing Eliot say _do you want me to fuck you_ like that is so hot he can barely keep from lunging at him again.

"Then you probably want me to last a little longer than five minutes," Eliot says, and steps fully back, grabs Quentin's hands in both of his. "Get on the fucking bed."

"Bossy," Quentin says, raising his eyebrows at Eliot, acting like that's not the most flattering thing anyone's ever said to him. Eliot thinks Quentin can make him come that fast? That's intriguing. Maybe Quentin should try for that sometime. Eliot can probably get it up again pretty quick, they could still go a second round later in the day.

Not tonight, though. Quentin has to focus, this has to go well, or what if Eliot decides he doesn’t want to do it again? So he gets on the bed, finally getting his pants and underwear all the way off, and settles himself. Then re-settles himself, legs a little wider. Then re-settles himself again with knees together, or does that look weird? He takes a deep breath, rubs his hands over his thighs.

Eliot looks over at him, hesitation flashing across his face. "Are you— if you change your mind, I don't care when it is, say the word and we'll switch to something else."

"Not changing my mind," Quentin says, staring at Eliot's dick as Eliot climbs onto the bed. "I want this. I'm just— you know me."

"That I do," Eliot says. He cups Quentin's face in one big hand. "I also know you're fucking stubborn as hell, so seriously, Quentin. Even if I’m fucking balls deep in you, the second you want to stop, we stop."

"What if my ass is just too good, and you can’t stop?" Quentin asks, widening his eyes innocently.

"Would you be serious for one fucking second?" Eliot rolls his eyes, huffs out a laugh. "Boy, that's a fucking role reversal. It's—" he stops, for a moment, and Quentin sees a flash of— something, in his face, that Quentin doesn't like at all. That looks like an echo of things Quentin's felt too often: _Maybe this person doesn’t actually want to be here. Maybe I’m not what they want. I should give them an out._ "It's incredibly important to me that you enjoy this, if we're going to do it. Which means enthusiastic consent, not— pushing through because you feel like you should, or you want me to get off, or anything."

Quentin breathes out softly. "Eliot," he says, and now it's his turn to cup Eliot's face, sweep his thumb across Eliot's cheek. "I am enjoying this a whole fucking lot. I want to do it. I promise I will tell you if I start not enjoying it, but so far that hasn't happened." He stares into Eliot's eyes, half trying to be sexy and half trying to stare Eliot's ridiculous anxiety into submission. "I promise."

"Thank you," Eliot says with a sigh. His expression sharpens back into a wicked smile and hungry eyes and _fuck_ , Eliot can do literally anything to him and it's gonna be so fucking good. Quentin's breath hitches. Eliot looks down Quentin’s body, slow, lingering, and Quentin feels like someone turned up the thermostat a couple dozen degrees.

"I was really only fidgeting before because I couldn't figure out the right way to sit so you'd look at me like that," Quentin admits.

Eliot laughs, bright and full-throated. "Oh, Quentin, Quentin. Gorgeous boy," he says. "There is no way you could sit that could discourage me from looking at you like this." He surges forward over Quentin, kissing him wet and deep and Quentin shivers all over. Eliot's chest pressed against his, his weight on Quentin's body, is— it’s everything. Quentin's not super used to being with people who are physically bigger than he is, and certainly none of the few guys he's messed around with ever have been all over him like Eliot is. It's incredible, to have this much to feel all at once. Eliot's stubble against his chin, his heartbeat over Quentin's, his knee pressing against the inside of Quentin's thigh below Quentin's balls. Hands and tongue and that _cock_ , it’s _heavy_ where it's lying against Quentin's leg and fuck, he wants it inside him _so bad_.

Even when Eliot draws back from the kiss, all those other sensations stay, and Quentin closes his eyes, skin hot and tingling. Eliot noses under his ear, kisses the corner of his jaw and bites a little. "You are going to look so damn pretty split open on my cock," Eliot purrs, and Quentin's whole body jerks.

"Please, El," he breathes, without really thinking about it first, it just seems like the right thing to say.

"Oh, so that's the key to getting you to stop being such a fucking brat?" Eliot grazes his teeth over Quentin's neck. "Remind you how I'm about to fill you up until you can't fucking breathe it's so much?"

"Jesus," Quentin says. "Your dick is not _that_ big." He can hear the quaver of the lie in his own voice.

"I don't know if it even has to be, with that tight little ass of yours," Eliot says. "It's a fucking crime against nature that nobody's ever fucked you."

"Good thing you're here to fix that, then," Quentin says. He squirms, tries to either rub his dick against Eliot or maybe grind his hip against Eliot's dick, preferably both? It kind of works, but Eliot's strong, Quentin can't move a ton with him on top. "So maybe like, let's get to it, already?"

"Mm," Eliot says, and then he's sitting back on his heels. Quentin makes a disappointed noise and keeps himself from making little grabby hands towards Eliot's arms, his dick. "This is a process, Q, and every step of it should be enjoyable. We have some decisions to make."

"Okay?"

"There's a spell that can relax you and get you ready in a few seconds," Eliot says. "It's not my favorite to use unless I'm going real quick and dirty, I like doing it the old-fashioned way, but I'd be remiss if I didn't mention it."

“We’ll do it the old-fashioned way, then,” Quentin says immediately. “That’s what, fingers? To open me up?”

Eliot sucks in a sharp breath. “Yeah,” he says, his voice rumbling low in his chest. “Although we’ll need something for lube.”

Quentin lets his hand drift down his own body, runs the backs of his fingers down his cock just to see Eliot's eyes zero in on the motion. "We have that oil."

"That's for salads, I spent three days putting anti theft wards on that peddler's cart to get that," Eliot says, frowning back up at Quentin's face.

Quentin raises his eyebrows and palms his cock again, biting back a laugh when Eliot's gaze drifts back to the action. God, how is it even possible that Quentin can just— do that? To _Eliot_? It's fucking crazy. "Yeah, but. I hadn’t kissed you, yet, when that happened. Maybe you have some different priorities, now?”

"Maybe," Eliot breathes, still staring at Quentin's hand moving slowly on his dick, the shiver of his stomach when his fingers slide all the way down to the base and back up. "Fuck." He shakes his head abruptly (but doesn't look away from Quentin's dick) and says, more matter-of-fact, "Okay, yes. Yes." He gets up off the bed to cross to the cupboards where they keep their food.

Quentin watches him go, in awe as always at his feline grace, how he _floats_ through any space he wants to, even with an erection. When Quentin walks around with a boner he feels like he's off-balance even more than usual, it's weird. Eliot just... glides. The muscles of his ass move smoothly under his skin, his back stretches as he reaches for the top shelf to grab the jar. He's not like, bodybuilder cut, but he's lean and strong (especially now, after a year of hauling water from the river on a near-daily basis) and just—

It's incredible, really, that he wants Quentin. He could have _anyone_. But here they are.

Eliot catches him staring, smirks and puts a little extra roll into his hips on his way back. Quentin stares back, licks his lips deliberately to see if he can make Eliot stumble. (It doesn't work this time, he'll need to keep practicing.) "Enjoying the view?" Eliot asks. "We could always do this the other way around, you know." He's obviously trying to look into Quentin's eyes, but keeps looking at Quentin's dick. "You could fuck me."

"Next time, maybe," Quentin says. "I'm not letting you off that easy." He spreads his legs and plants his feet on the bed, knees bent, and hopes that's sexy and not weird.

Eliot does stumble a bit, at that, needing a second attempt to get the cork out of the jar of oil. So, sexy, probably. "Fucking god, Q, you're unbelievable," he says. Then he's crawling back onto the bed, fingers shining with oil, and he's got a finger right against Quentin's entrance.

"Keep stroking yourself," he says. "And breathe, try to relax."

"I've done this part before. I know I told you that," Quentin says, and lets a long breath out as Eliot presses in. But he gets why Eliot reminded him. It's a weird feeling at first, every time. Stroking himself helps, short little tugs just under the head of his cock, keeping his hands well out of Eliot's way. And the look on Eliot's face helps a fucking whole lot, like everything else is gone and Eliot can only focus on his finger pushing into Quentin's ass. 

Quentin breathes again, feeling a smile creep up over his face, overtake him, as the weirdness recedes and Eliot moves his hand. The in-out motion is so good, the brush of Eliot's thumb over Quentin's balls is so good. Quentin doesn't know if he likes this as much as he likes sucking dick, yet, but it's certainly not fucking bad. He makes happy little humming noises every time Eliot presses in, both because it feels right and because he's learned, over the past couple weeks, that Eliot loves it when he's loud. And it's not like anyone else is nearby, so Quentin can really go for it, show Eliot how good this feels in some way that doesn't require words. Words are hard to come by, sometimes, especially with Eliot’s finger sliding _fuck right there god_ , but sounds — Quentin can do sounds.

Quentin’s got shivers running through his whole body, now, and on the next movement Eliot draws his finger all the way out and pushes in with two. Quentin makes a louder happy sound and lets his hand tighten a bit more on his cock. God it's nice, being full like this. Then he remembers that this is not even half as full as he's going to be tonight, and he gasps.

“Still good?” Eliot asks, his fingers slowing.

“So good,” Quentin says. He tips his hips up, shoves himself deeper on Eliot’s fingers. “Fuck. How long—?”

“Until I say you’re ready,” Eliot says firmly. He rubs over Quentin’s prostate on his next stroke and Quentin twitches, swears.

“Better not take too long,” Quentin says, fisting his cock in time with Eliot’s strokes. He’s so fucking hard already, from making out and Eliot’s dick in his mouth and Eliot’s fingers in his ass.

“Or you can slow down,” Eliot points out, and reaches up to grab Quentin’s wrist, hold his hand still.

Quentin jerks in his grasp. His face feels like it’s burning, his skin is on fire he _wants_ so badly. “Fuck, Eliot—”

“I told you, Q, this is a process.” Eliot’s fingers haven’t stopped moving, and now that Quentin’s hand can’t move on his dick, he has nothing to do but lie back and _feel_ them as they stretch and slide. He shudders, his eyes fluttering closed.

“That’s it,” he hears Eliot say softly. “Relax for me. God. There you go. Now we’re getting somewhere.”

“Eliot,” Quentin moans, again, as Eliot repositions his fingers, and now there are more, probably three, the most he’s ever had inside of him.

“You have such a pretty little asshole,” Eliot says thoughtfully, almost casually. “You sure I can’t just finger you until you come? I think I could get you there.” He punctuates his words by gliding his fingers over Quentin’s prostate, making Quentin cry out. 

Quentin has no doubt Eliot could get him there in any way Eliot chose, the man is— it’s insane. Quentin plans to never stop giving him shit about the sex god thing, but it’s true, actually. And it’s barely been two weeks, Quentin knows he probably hasn’t even seen half of what Eliot can do to him. But he wants one thing tonight, and he _has_ to stay focused. “Not enough,” he says, squirming, angling his hips so Eliot’s thumb will rub against his balls.

Eliot’s breath hitches. “Greedy,” he says. His voice is rough, low. “This isn’t enough? Really?” His hand is moving faster, suddenly, fucking into Quentin as deep as he can go.

“Fuck,” Quentin says, arching off the bed a little. He wants to stroke himself, but it feels so fucking good and he’d hate to throw off Eliot’s rhythm. “Fuck, no, more.”

Eliot’s hand _stops moving_ with his fingers halfway out of Quentin, fuck, _why_ — “No more, you say? I should stop?”

“You know that’s not what I fucking meant,” Quentin snaps, pushing up on his elbows and glaring furiously at Eliot.

“And there he is,” Eliot says, grinning broadly back at Quentin. “Pushy bottom Quentin Coldwater, reporting for duty.”

“I am not pushy,” Quentin says. He plants his feet on the bed and levers his hips up so he can fuck himself on Eliot’s fingers. Eliot watches, his expression fascinated, holds his arm perfectly still, his muscles flexing as Quentin rocks forward onto him. “You’re just an asshole, you know exactly what I want and you won’t give it to me. Oh, fuck—”

“You’re literally fucking yourself on my hand, there is no pushier thing you could possibly be doing,” Eliot says, staring intently. His eyes are a little glazed over. Quentin wishes he could see better what this looked like, Eliot’s fingers sliding in and out of him, but it’s enough of an ab workout keeping his ass off the bed, he can’t also keep his head up. He’ll have to rely on his imagination, then. And he’s had _lots_ of practice imagining this, over the past year. And maybe every once in a while before that, if he’s being honest.

Between being incredibly turned on and basically doing, like, a pilates workout, Quentin is sweating. The sun still hasn’t fully set, and the heat of the summer day is still hanging sticky in the air. And even beyond all of that, Quentin feels like he’s overheating, the pressure of Eliot’s fingers in him making the fire in his core burn brighter and brighter. He tries to shove himself forward harder, get _more_ , loses his balance, collapses onto the bed. Eliot’s fingers slide out of him and Quentin groans, frustrated.

“Easy, Q.” Eliot grips the inner slope of Quentin’s thighs, pressing Quentin’s hips down onto the mattress. “There’s no rush.”

“Easy for you to say,” Quentin says, pushing up onto his elbows. “You haven’t been waiting for this as long as I have.”

Eliot cocks his head to the side, just a little. A look flows over his face that makes Quentin’s dick twitch. He looks _dangerous_. Predatory. “What makes you think that?”

Quentin swallows hard. “I mean.” He gestures helplessly at Eliot’s— everything. “It’s obvious?”

“What’s obvious?” Eliot purrs. He folds himself down to kiss the inside of Quentin’s thigh, right above his knee, then keeps kissing his way upward. His stubble scrapes along Quentin’s skin as he goes, making Quentin shiver. The _look_ on his face, as he _bites_ at Quentin’s thigh, laves over the spot with the flat of his tongue. 

“Uh,” Quentin says, shakily. “I kissed you. First.” Finally. That’s what he’s been trying to say, but his brain keeps hiccuping, kind of, as Eliot’s mouth gets closer and closer to his dick. “So like, obviously I was thinking about it even before then.”

“Mm,” Eliot says. He’s _so_ close to Quentin’s balls, now, Quentin can _feel_ his breath over them, but he stops to rub his cheek deliberately against the tender skin right at the junction of Quentin’s thighs. It shouldn’t feel good, right, the rasp of five-o’clock shadow right there, scratching pain right where _all_ of Quentin’s nerves are concentrated? It does, though. “Do you remember much about the day you took your entrance exam?”

Quentin blinks. That’s— several years and a fucking entire _plane of reality_ away from where he is right now. From where he’d like to stay focused. Because Eliot might, he seems like he’s gonna at least _lick_ Quentin’s cock, maybe suck it, maybe finger him at the same time, and it’s going to be fucking amazing. “Not right now I don’t,” he answers honestly. Eliot’s keeping Quentin’s lower half pressed firmly into the bed, Quentin can’t _quite_ squirm his way to get Eliot’s mouth where he wants it.

“Understandable,” Eliot says casually. “It’s a stressful day, I can barely even think about mine. But I remember yours.” He moves his hands, and Quentin could squirm freely now if he wanted to but Eliot’s fingers are pressing inside him, again, and Quentin would very much not like to move and possibly lose that. “ _Very_ well. Because that was the first day I thought about doing _this_ to you.”

Quentin— can’t have heard that right? He’s not hearing much right, probably, he’s moaning so loudly as Eliot fucks him with three fingers and _finally_ tongues at Quentin’s balls, sucks one gently into his mouth. “Fuck,” he breathes. 

Eliot licks Quentin’s balls again, then lets them go long enough to speak. “I thought about that, too,” he says. “I had many thoughts.” He lowers his head a little, his nose rubbing Quentin’s balls, and _Jesus_ is _that_ what it feels like to have someone lick your asshole? How, how is that so good. Quentin can feel Eliot’s tongue teasing over the taut muscle, stretched around his fingers.

“Eliot,” he breathes, like saying his name can let him read Quentin’s mind and understand how fucking brain-meltingly good this all is. “When—?”

“Soon,” Eliot says, muffled, and picks up the pace with his fingers. “Just gotta get you feeling good.”

“Fuck, I feel so fucking good,” Quentin moans. He doesn’t even _want_ to stroke himself at this point, he’s too fucking close, but he brings his hands up to his chest, thumbs at his nipples. His whole body is electrified, tingling.

Eliot draws back slowly, so slowly, but Quentin still makes a pained noise when he doesn’t have the stretch of his fingers, the sweep of his tongue. “All right, baby,” he says soothingly. “You ready for me?”

Quentin doesn’t even know how to fucking respond verbally to that, words are too hard, he just reaches blindly forward, grabs for any part of Eliot he can possibly reach. He gets a forearm and a hint of elbow, tries to drag Eliot up his body with not nearly enough leverage, but Eliot follows his motions and surges over him, repositioning Quentin’s legs with one hand as his other— his other is— 

—reaching for the oil, spilling some into his huge palm so he can wrap it around his huge cock and get it slick, shining in the sunset light filtering through the gap in the blinds—

“You are fucking beautiful like this,” Eliot murmurs, hovering above Quentin, as he shifts his weight forward and there’s pressure, something hot and smooth, nudging against Quentin’s hole—

Quentin wants to keep his eyes open, see Eliot’s face the first time they do this, but it’s _too fucking intense_ for that. He remembers to breathe, somehow, letting air out through his nose as Eliot’s dick pushes, stretches. He can feel it when the head is in, the pressure lessening a bit, and then starting to build again as Eliot pushes forward.

Eliot stops moving when Quentin runs out of air, holding still as Quentin draws in a gasping breath. “Are you okay?” he asks. Concerned. A little strained. Quentin opens his eyes: Eliot’s flushed, shuddering. Every muscle in his shoulders, his arms, is taut as he holds himself carefully above Quentin.

“Yeah,” Quentin says hurriedly, realizing he’s been staring up at Eliot, panting open-mouthed, for a good ten seconds. “Yeah, god.” He feels _so_ full already, and probably there’s only like an inch of Eliot’s dick in him. “How. Give me more.”

Eliot makes a desperate sound. He eases further in, and Quentin lets his knees fall even wider open, trying to make room for Eliot’s hips to nestle between his thighs. If Eliot even gets that far down. Quentin’s like. Not actually sure he has enough ass to fit all of it in.

Eliot lets his head drop onto Quentin’s shoulder, breathing hard over Quentin’s chest. “Jesus,” he whispers. “You are so fucking tight. Fuck. Still good?”

Quentin nods and hopes Eliot can feel the motion, because he’s so focused on breathing, relaxing, that he can’t even form words. It just _keeps going_. Quentin’s used to the stretch at his entrance, now, it feels fucking great, but he’s never had something in him so _deep_. He suddenly remembers what Eliot said earlier, _I'm about to fill you up until you can't fucking breathe it's so much_ — and like, yeah, that might be happening.

Eliot stops moving again. “That’s all we’re doing for now,” he pants. Quentin can hear his heartbeat, going a mile a minute the same as Quentin’s is. “Start you on the first half.”

“That’s _half_?” Quentin says. It feels like it’s up to his _ribs_ , like it’s going to go straight through his back and pin him to the mattress.

Eliot laughs, breathless. “Told you. Just wait until I start moving.”

Quentin feels his eyes roll back in his head, a little. He’s adjusting more to the pressure, now, and more than anything he’s becoming more aware of the rest of Eliot’s body: his arms braced on either side of Quentin’s head, his sweaty forehead pressed into Quentin’s shoulder. The arch of his back, ass in the air, as he holds himself still inside Quentin. “You can,” he says. “Now. Like, now. Fuck.”

“Give it another moment—”

“ _Now_ , Eliot.”

“Fuck,” Eliot grates out, basically a _growl_ , and fuck if that doesn’t make Quentin’s cock twitch. And then it twitches again, _hard_ , when Eliot lifts his hips, dragging his cock out of Quentin, and then pushes in again.

“ _Oh_ ,” Quentin shouts at the ceiling. His hands fly to Eliot’s sides so he can hold on. It’s the same pressure as before, but the _movement_ , the slide of it, the ridge of Eliot’s cockhead is doing _something_ that should not be possible to Quentin’s insides. “Jesus _fuck_.”

Eliot keeps fucking him slowly, constant motion, in to out to in and out again. The angle of his head, his hips, means there’s space between their bodies, space where Quentin’s dick is hard and dribbling precome against his belly. “Touch yourself, baby,” Eliot says, breathless. “Want to feel you.”

Quentin clings stubbornly to Eliot’s sides. If he lets go, he might, he really might lose his mind. Eliot’s torso is his only anchor, the solid thing keeping him from fucking leaving his body and floating out the window on waves of pleasure. “Can’t,” he whines.

“You can,” Eliot encourages. “One hand, keep the other one on me. Come on.”

How does he always fucking know what Quentin’s thinking? Quentin peels one hand away from Eliot’s skin — it’s like taking a hand off a cliff face to try and climb higher, terrifying and exhilarating, as Eliot’s cock stretches him open and lights up all his nerves. Then he gets his hand over his dick, wrapping around it, stroking. He maybe got a little less hard for a minute there, when everything was so _much_ , but now he’s back on the edge, so stiff he can feel his pulse under his skin. He squeezes at the base of his dick, trying to ride this out a little longer, Eliot fucking into him so good it’s fucking agony.

“Fuck,” Eliot says sharply. “Oh, fuck. Shit.” He stops moving, and Quentin sobs, shudders, digs his fingers into Eliot’s side. “Sorry,” Eliot says. He lifts his head. His eyes are dark, pupils wide, his curls in beautiful disarray from rubbing against Quentin’s shoulder. “Fuck. I can be done _very_ soon, if you’d like, or if you want to do something else—”

“Don’t you fucking, no,” Quentin gasps. “Fuck, El, I _want_ it. _Oh_ my god.”

Eliot smiles at him. “I can feel it, you’re getting even fucking tighter,” he says. He brushes a kiss across Quentin’s lips, too fast for Quentin to sink into it like he wants to. “Squeezing around my dick like you can’t even help it. You’re going to make me come so fucking hard.”

“Please,” Quentin says desperately, incoherently, reaching for words he can’t quite find. “More, I want. God. I don’t.” He takes a huge, shuddering breath. “I don’t want to come yet, I want you to f-fuck me more.”

Eliot kisses him again, long enough this time for Quentin to moan into his mouth, taste his tongue, suck on his bottom lip. “Are you okay if we switch positions?” he asks. “I want to see you.”

“Yeah, what. Anything, however you want. _Fuck,_ ” Quentin sobs, as Eliot slides all the way out of him. He feels _empty_ , stretched and aching. He arches up against Eliot’s stomach.

“Off the bed for a second,” Eliot says. He tips himself to the side so Quentin can roll out from under him, stagger to his feet. Eliot glides, again, so he’s sitting propped up against the headboard. He reaches out to catch Quentin’s wrist, tug him gently back.

Somewhere, deep in the recesses of Quentin’s overheated brain, is a consciousness that understands what Eliot wants him to do. He gets onto the bed, onto Eliot’s lap, maneuvers forward until Eliot’s dick is behind him. Eliot cups his face in both hands, once he gets there, kisses him _hard_. His teeth sink into Quentin’s lip, and Quentin moans, wraps his arms around Eliot’s neck. He still feels like something is missing, but at least he’s here, in Eliot’s arms. That’s almost as good.

“Is this all right?” Eliot asks. “You can control the motion a little more, this way, and I get to watch you ride me. I’ll keep my hand around my dick so you don’t accidentally take too much.”

“So you’re making me do all the work, and not even letting me reap the benefits?” Quentin asks, his obstinate instincts rising through the fog of _put your fucking dick in me so help me God I need it_ that’s taking up most of his head.

Eliot looks shocked, for a moment, then he laughs. “Suit yourself,” he says. “Don’t say I didn’t warn you.” He waves a hand at the bottle of oil to call it over to him, pulls Quentin against his chest as he adds more oil to the base of his dick.

Quentin keeps himself pressed forward against Eliot as he goes up on his knees, tries to find the right angle with his hips. Eliot wraps a broad hand over Quentin’s hipbone, helps him settle into place so he can feel that heat again, the stretch of Eliot’s cock starting to nudge inside him. It’s easier this time, but Quentin’s also impatient. As soon as it’s in, he’s sinking down, moaning into the side of Eliot’s neck as Eliot fills him up, deeper, more, Jesus how the _fuck_ is it still going—

The _noise_ Eliot makes, when Quentin’s thighs finally settle onto his lap again, is choked and loud and unbearably hot. Quentin, as usual, can’t quite believe that _he_ made _Eliot_ moan like that. That it’s _his_ waist Eliot is desperately holding on to. _His_ neck that Eliot is turning his face into, kissing, biting, whispering, “Does that feel good, baby? Do you like having my cock all the way inside you?”

“God,” Quentin says. He had thought Eliot’s dick was in him up to his ribs before, now it must be at his fucking shoulder blades, at the back of his _throat_. His whole body shudders: once, twice, clenching and adjusting, nerves firing at random as it works to accommodate the massive fucking cock in Quentin’s ass. “I like it,” he finally manages, “so fucking much. _Fuck._ ”

“You take it so well,” Eliot croons in his ear, rubbing the small of Quentin’s back with one big palm. He laughs, softly. “I should have guessed you wouldn’t be satisfied with just part of it. You’re not really built to do anything but dive in head-first.”

“You like that about me,” Quentin says. He’s almost ready to get moving, but he’s a little — scared, kind of, that it’s going to feel so good he’s going to come all over himself. His dick is nestled against Eliot’s stomach, hard, twitching every once in a while as his muscles continue to relax into the pressure inside him. If this feels anywhere near as good as the other position, it’s going to be very messy here very soon.

“I do,” Eliot says. He smooths Quentin’s hair back from his face, runs long fingers down Quentin’s cheek. “I like many things about you.”

Quentin bites his lip, a little, holding back something self-deprecating or snarky. This is _not_ the moment to let his low self-esteem ruin everything. Instead he does his best to _squeeze_ around Eliot’s dick. The way Eliot swears and grabs the back of his neck tells him he probably did it right.

“That one of the things you like?” Quentin asks, and then before Eliot can catch his breath and answer he lifts himself up, slides up on Eliot’s dick. “ _Fuck_ , oh my god—”

“Yeah,” Eliot growls, there’s no other word for it. He keeps a firm grip on the back of Quentin’s neck with one hand, covers Quentin’s waist with his other, lets his thumb sweep over Quentin’s hipbone as Quentin starts riding him, figuring out the rhythm.

It’s not as tiring Quentin expected it to be — Eliot basically holds his body upright, all Quentin has to do is use his thighs, stronger than ever from a year of near-constant crouching to move fucking tiles around. That’s almost a problem, because it means he can focus so much on Eliot’s dick _moving_ inside him again, how every little shift in position makes it set off new and exciting fireworks in his brain. Up, and he gets the ridge of Eliot’s cockhead gliding over his prostate, making him see stars; down, and he gets the deep stretch and fullness and his dick and balls sliding through the hair on Eliot’s belly. There really isn’t a bad way to go here.

“Quentin,” Eliot says breathlessly, a lot sooner that Quentin wants him to but it makes sense, this is fucking _so good_. “Fuck. I’m.”

“So fucking close?” Quentin whispers, finishing his sentence for him. “Fuck, me too, god—”

“Touch yourself?” Eliot offers.

“Mm, no, want you,” Quentin says, and rolls his hips on the next stroke to try and slide his dick harder against Eliot’s sweat-slick stomach.

Eliot _whines_ , almost, Quentin has _never_ heard him sound like that. Wouldn’t have expected he could sound like that. Very much wants to make him sound like that again. He gets his hand off of Quentin’s waist, though, and wraps it around Quentin’s dick, stroking with quick upward motions.

“Stay down,” he chokes out, his grip tightening on the back of Quentin’s neck. “I want to feel you come on my dick.”

Quentin moans and follows instructions, sinks _all_ the way down onto Eliot’s dick, although his whole body shakes even after he stops moving. Eliot’s hand is driving him headlong towards the edge, and Quentin would swear he can feel Eliot’s dick _twitching_ inside him, minute changes in the pressure and angle as Eliot pants open-mouthed and strokes Quentin’s cock and never takes his fucking hand off of Quentin’s neck, _holding_ him in place impaled on Eliot’s cock.

“Come for me,” Eliot says, low and frantic. Quentin tears his eyes away from the blur of motion that is Eliot’s hand on his dick and looks up at Eliot’s face, which is flushed, his dark eyes sweeping hungrily over Quentin’s body. It’s that _look_ that does it, almost more than anything else, the way when their eyes meet Quentin can _see_ how badly Eliot wants him to come, wants to make him feel fucking amazing. Wants to be here, in this moment, in bed, with _him_ , Quentin. He chokes out one last “Fuck, oh fuck—” and feels himself shaking apart, squeezing hard around Eliot’s cock and coming all over Eliot’s hand and stomach.

Eliot cries out wordlessly when Quentin comes, lets go of Quentin’s neck to throw one arm around his waist and lift Quentin up just enough, give Eliot an inch of space to fuck up into him. Quentin’s still in the middle of fucking coming, he can’t fucking believe how good the drag of Eliot’s cock inside him feels like this. And apparently it’s pretty fucking good for Eliot, too, because he only gets a handful of thrusts in before he stops and pulls Quentin close, shouting into Quentin’s shoulder as he comes.

Quentin’s first thought, as their heartbeats gradually wind down to normal, as their breathing evens out, is: this is really sticky. His second thought, following immediately on the heels of the first, is: I don’t even care. That was _fucking_ amazing.

“So. Uh,” he says eventually. “Was that— good for you too?”

Eliot laughs with his face still pressed into Quentin’s shoulder, and keeps laughing as he sits up and catches Quentin’s chin to draw him into a kiss. 

“You’re sweet,” he says, once he’s finished kissing Quentin slowly until Quentin feels like he’s melting. “It was incredibly good for me. And you?”

Quentin kisses him again, melts into him a little more. Words are hard, but kissing Eliot is easy.

“We’re going to get, like,” he says, when he finally admits that he has to breathe, “absolutely no work done. I just want to do this all the time now.”

“We’ll see how you feel about that tomorrow morning,” Eliot says.

And yeah, Quentin is really sticky, beyond even the help of their usual small-messes cleanup charms, and as he settles into the bathtub that Eliot fills and heats up for him and orders him to get into, he can tell he’s a little sore. But it was worth it and then some, getting to have Eliot inside him like that. Getting to make Eliot feel _that_ good. He relaxes back against the side of the wooden tub, lazily rubbing soap over his belly and thighs to wash off the oil and come.

Eliot leans over him to dip a washcloth into the tub. Quentin watches him out of the corner of his eye as he cleans himself up, water running down his thighs. 

“Hey,” he says, remembering something from earlier. “Did you actually, like. Think about fucking me that first day? My entrance exam?”

“Could you not tell?” Eliot asks. He raises an eyebrow at Quentin. “I thought my body language was pretty clear.”

“Huh,” Quentin says, trying to think back. “I guess I was— I mean, I wasn’t exactly used to having gorgeous guys checking me out, so I guess I just. Missed it?” He watches Eliot drying off, his skin clean and pink. It’s getting dark in the house now that the sun is down, and Eliot lights a few candles with simple tuts. He looks fucking amazing in the flickering light. “I guess I’d say I’m still not used to having gorgeous guys checking me out. To be fair.”

“I’ll put you through a rigorous training program,” Eliot says. “Let me know when you get used to me checking you out.”

“Not if that means you’ll stop,” Quentin says.

Eliot smiles — almost a smirk, like he’s joking, but not quite. More simple than that. More sincere. “There’s very little chance of that ever happening,” he says. Then he stretches, groaning, and walks over to where his clothes are in a heap on the floor. “Shall we try one more pattern before bed?”

“Do we have to?” Quentin asks. His fingers are going wrinkly, but his muscles feel all loose and floaty, thoroughly satisfied.

“We don’t _have_ to,” Eliot says, “but we are on a quest. I don’t think spending more time in bed together is going to get us much closer to finding the beauty of all life.”

“One night, El,” Quentin says. “Just let me have this. You fucked all the patterns out of me, I can’t come up with any right now.”

“You say one night,” Eliot points out, “and then you say it _every_ night, and then we never finish this damn thing.” But instead of pulling on his clothes, he gets into bed naked, settling himself under the bedsheets.

Quentin doesn’t quite know how to respond, because frankly, at the moment— never finishing this damn puzzle doesn’t sound like it’d be such a bad thing. Living here, with magic in the air, with the forest all around them, with their little house full of everything they really need. With Eliot. What’s so wrong with not wanting that to end?

He dries himself off and slides into bed, snuggling up to Eliot. His thighs are sore, a little, from the exercise and from Eliot’s teeth and scruff. Eliot’s chest is warm and solid under his head, his arm strong around Quentin’s shoulders.

They’ve been having sex for like two weeks, and it’s incredible, it’s everything Quentin has been wanting. And somehow, it turns out Eliot’s been wanting it too, maybe even longer than Quentin has. Quentin’s not sure if it’s— anything other than sex. He’s started to think, maybe he kind of hopes it could be? But right now, there’s still so much he wants to discover about how their bodies can fit together, and just working on that part of it, solving that piece of the puzzle— that’s enough.

“Hey,” Quentin says, then isn’t sure what to say next.

“Hey,” Eliot says back, looking down at Quentin and raising an eyebrow. There’s a little smile on his face, and his eyes are warm. Quentin feels like he’s blushing, but like— in his soul?

Yeah, so. Maybe he does want more than just sex. And asking for what he wants worked once tonight already.

But words are hard, sometimes, and— could he really get so lucky twice? It has to be pushing his luck too far, right, to think that on top of Eliot wanting to fuck him, he would want—

So he won’t ask, not tonight. He can just hope, and see what happens.

“Thank you,” he says finally. “Just— thanks.”

“Q,” Eliot sighs. He pulls Quentin closer, kisses his forehead softly. “You are so very welcome.”


End file.
